“I’d lay money on it not being under there,” Angel said.
“Where then, Gunnery Sergeant?” asked Washington, with more than a hint of exasperation.
O’Malley scowled at her.
“Where do you think, Amanda?” Angel asked.
Where do I think? What the chuffing heck would I know! “I don’t—”
“Think.”
She looked harder at the scene in front of them. The road coming into the rocky outcrop. The bushes. The disturbed ground. The rocks.
“It has something to do with the rocks, doesn’t it?”
Angel nodded.
“If it’s not under the rocks . . . under the disturbed soil.” She looked to Angel for confirmation. “They want you to think it’s under the rocks.”
He nodded again.
“They want you to think it’s under the rocks, so you’ll detour off the road to avoid it, and—”
“We run over a pressure plate and”—O’Malley opened the fingers of his left hand—“Kaboom.”
“I’ll radio for EOD support,” Washington said.
Angel raised his left hand to shoulder height, then cocked his wrist and pointed to the roadside. “You want to go poke a stick at it first, Mace?”
Amanda grabbed O’Malley’s arm. “Surely not. That’s dangerous, isn’t it?”
His lips turned down. “Best way of finding out if there’s something there. He pokes around a bit. and if he doesn’t get spread all over the road, we know it’s safe.”
Her jawed dropped.
“Yeah, and well if he does, it’s still a win cos at least the IED will have been dealt with.”
Her mouth opened and closed. O’Malley shrugged.
Mason strode to the vehicle and returned carrying a metal detector and a backpack. He ran the detector over the ground and up O’Malley’s thigh where it emitted a loud squeal.
Amanda placed her fists on her hips and glared at O’Malley. He responded with a cheesy grin.
“Good to go,” Mason said. He walked slowly toward the disturbed dirt swinging the detector in a smooth arc in front of him.
Amanda’s nerves jumped at every noise the detector made, but the men around her didn’t show any reaction to the various beeps and squawks coming from it.
Mason surveyed the patch of dirt in question, then gave a hand signal to Angel. Shouldering the detector, he sauntered back to the waiting group. “Nothing. Time to go check further afield.”
“Comms check,” said Angel.
The men all affirmed the check. Angel slapped Mason on the shoulder. Mason repeated his routine, slowly advancing step-by-step.
Angel lifted a finger. “He’s spotted some blue plastic in the grass.” He pressed his lips into a thin line. “He’s going to his belt buckle.”
Amanda’s gaze darted from Angel to Mason. She didn’t dare ask any questions, but she was grateful that Angel was relaying what was unfolding to Washington. Mason lay down, almost disappearing from sight.
Although Angel seemed to be staring into space, his focus was palpable. “OK, he’s found wires leading into a shoebox-sized container.” After a few moments of silence, he said, “He’s found the detonator.”
Washington spoke. “Do we call for EOD now?”
“He knows what he’s doing.”
Amanda twisted the ends of her scarf in her hands. I bloody well hope so!
“Single device . . . No remote trigger . . . Affirmative . . . Use of C-4 is authorized.” Angel raised his arm. “Everyone mount up. Now.” He opened the rear door to his vehicle and indicated Amanda should get in.
A few minutes later Mason joined them. He opened a small plastic case and inserted a key into the console inside. He looked to Angel who nodded the go-ahead.
“Fire in the hole. Fire in the hole. Fire in the hole. In 5-4-3—”
O’Malley nudged Amanda and mimed placing his fingers in his ears. Amanda plugged hers and crouched behind Angel’s seat. When Mason’s countdown ran out, she peeped around the side. About eighty yards to the side of them, the ground uplifted like a volcano and a few seconds later the vehicle rocked as the shock wave from the blast washed over it. This was soon followed by a shower of small stones plinking off the armor plate.
O’Malley laughed and prodded Amanda. “You can come out now.” He pushed at Mason’s helmeted head. “She-it, Mace. Just how big was that puppy?”
He’s laughing? They’re all laughing. They actually think this is fun!
“Big enough.”
Amanda started to join in the laughter but it died on her lips and she shrank back into her seat overcome with a different rush—that they were all uninjured. That no one needed medical treatment. Or an airlift out. She scrambled to open the door and vomited into the sand. O’Malley handed her a bottle of water when she sat up.
Washington’s voice crackled over the radio. “Do you think it’s safe now, Gunny?”
The men stopped joking around. “Oooooooh,” O’Malley said, placing his bunched fists in front of his chest.
Angel keyed the mic. “No, ma’am. I don’t ever think it’s safe, so we proceed with caution.” He inclined his head at Mason, who jumped down from the vehicle, once more sweeping the metal detector this way and that. Reaching what he deemed to be clear road, his shoulders lifted and dropped in a huge sigh of relief. He raised his hand to call Angel on.
Amanda held her breath But they’d said it was safe, right? I hope to goodness that’s as close as I ever come to war! But she had a new, profound respect for the men who were facing this very situation every day of their lives out here.
17
The hours in Murphy’s Bar swam by with generous amounts of beer accompanying the men’s memories of Villarreal. Zanna didn’t doubt the veracity of the stories because of the reverence with which they were relayed. However, their tales of frontline deployment became increasingly larger-than-life in direct correlation with the amount of alcohol consumed. Zanna appreciated the opportunity to let her hair down and part of her wished Rivera could join the drinking and story-telling, but another part worried that he actually might, so the fact he was still nursing his first beer was more reassuring than she liked to admit.
“So, there we are in I-Raq and we’ve been out on night patrol,” Ben said. “We’re coming back in just before it gets light, and the young kid at the wire freaks when he sees us coming outta the dark. He’s like yelling, ‘Halt. Identify yourselves!’ And do you know what he says?” He looked at Zanna, but thumbed in Rivera’s direction.
Zanna was intrigued; with the tears at the graveside, she now knew he wasn’t the block of granite he liked to portray. Maybe this would give her another insight.
“He says to me, ‘Look at the kid’s name’, and we’re like, yeah, so what? And he says, ‘This is too good to be true . . . you know what the date is, right? A once in a lifetime opportunity.’ He walks calmly up to the kid and he says in this Obi-Wan Kenobi voice, ‘Did you know today is International Star Wars Day?’ The kid looks at Rivera like he’s lost his mind. ‘No,’ he says in this tentative voice. So, he says, ‘Why, yes, May the fourth be with you, Luke.’”
Zanna stared at Rivera. OK, Enigma Man. Nice to see there’s a keen sense of humor in there.
He was shaking his head, running his tongue over his bottom lip. Oh, there it is again! Her breath caught. The smile that reached his eyes. It was such a rare thing and it changed his features completely. He was handsome enough when he scowled, which seemed to be most of the time, but when he smiled—really smiled—and the corners of his eyes crinkled, Zanna grew warm at the thought of him touching her and smiling in that way. Ben was still talking to her.
“ . . . time we took the Humvee up into that village in—”
“Don’t even go there,” Rivera said, laughing out loud and rubbing his hand over his chin.
Another first; a real honest-to-goodness laugh.
“I don’t think the Statute of Limitations has run out on that one y
et,” he said. He caught her looking at him and shifted his gaze down and away.
Zanna sighed and turned her attention toward a young woman approaching their table. Nervously, she asked Rivera if he’d like to dance, then glanced over her shoulder to a group of whispering, giggling friends.
Rivera tapped his right thigh and pointed to the crutches by the side of his chair.
You poor thing. Did they dare you to come and ask him?
Tim leaped out of his chair and offered her his arm. “I’d be happy to act as stand in.”
She accepted with a laugh and they shimmied their way onto the dance floor.
Ben shook his head slowly. “The blues get ’em every time. They’re like magpies; they see all the shiny bits and can’t resist coming to take a look.”
Doyle roared with laughter. “Well, Rivera has certainly got more shiny bits than anyone else around here. But what I’m wondering is why, with all my years of experience and innate charm, she didn’t ask me to dance?”
“What are all those shiny bits anyway?” Zanna asked. Doyle had more ribbons than Rivera; five and a half rows of them. Rivera had four, with one lone red, white, and blue ribbon on a fifth top row, but Doyle did not have as many badges.
Pointing to the gold-colored metal badges above the ribbons on Rivera’s left breast, Doyle said, “Those are the main attraction. They mean he’s Dual-Cool, or as it’s sometimes known and very appropriate in his case”—he grabbed Rivera around the neck and rubbed his head—“Double-Trouble.”
“Dual-what now?” Zanna asked.
Ben smiled. “You’re Dual-Cool—double qualified—when you get your Scuba Bubble as well as your Gold Wings.”
Zanna leaned toward Rivera and reached out as if to touch the wings, but stopped short of actually doing so. The insignia was of an open parachute flanked by a pair of spread eagle wings. “Gold Wings? Dual Cool? Scuba Bubble? How long does it actually take for one to become fluent in Marine-speak?”
Rivera was watching her, his lips slightly parted, but otherwise the usual unreadable expression on his face.
Zanna circled her forefinger in front of the badge above his Gold Wings. “So that one’s a Scuba Bubble? I thought it was an alien in a spacesuit. It’s a diver. I see it now.”
“Yes,” Ben said, “Combatant Diver. It’s a wetsuit hood, low-profile diving mask, and chest-mounted rebreather unit.”
Zanna blinked at Ben and passed her hand over the top of her head. “In English?”
Rivera spoke. “The breathing apparatus recycles exhaled carbon dioxide and recycles it into a breathable mix of nitrogen and oxygen. It’s a closed circuit unit, which means no bubbles escape to the water’s surface to give away the diver’s position.”
So that’s why you’re such an excellent swimmer.
Ben snapped his fingers and flicked his wrist. “To have the bubble means you’re pretty cool. To have the wings on their own means you’re damn cool. To have both together means you’re über-cool, even by Marine standards.”
Zanna nodded at Ben’s words but looked into Rivera’s eyes. “Sounds bad ass.”
Rivera’s mouth twisted into one his lopsided expressions of wry amusement. Doyle and Ben Schwarz both wore the jump wings, but Tim—having a great time showing off his moves to his new friend on the dance floor—didn’t have any badges above his ribbons.
Doyle gestured to the two badges hanging beneath the rows of ribbons. “These silver ones are for Marksmanship. You have three levels: Marksman; who has just scraped through, Sharpshooter; middle of the range, more hits than misses. And then you have the crossed rifles.” He indicated his own, Rivera’s and Ben’s badges, which were all crossed rifles and had the giveaway text of RIFLE EXPERT underneath.
“Same goes for pistols then?” Zanna asked as Doyle and Rivera were both wearing a badge with crossed pistols and the legend PISTOL EXPERT. Ben’s read PISTOL SHARPSHOOTER. Rivera also had requalification bars under the Expert bar. Both rifle and pistol bars read 7th AWARD.
Doyle smiled and nodded.
“Don’t you boys ever get tired of talking shop?” Julie said, in mock exasperation. “Can we please have a dance, darling?”
“Sure,” said Ben. He stood and led Julie out to the dance floor.
Doyle extended his hand to Zanna. “May I have the pleasure, ma’am?”
She looked to Rivera. Why on earth am I seeking permission from him? He gestured to the dance floor with his open upturned palm.
Zanna enjoyed dancing with Doyle. It was a slow dance, and he held her in a polite, formal manner. Her fun was tempered, however, when she saw Rivera rest his elbows on the table, drop his head down between his hands, and rake his fingers through his short, thick black hair. Oh, he must be starting to feel that leg now. He stopped with his fingers locked behind his bowed head. He heaved a sigh, unlocked his fingers and sat back in his chair. He screwed his eyes shut and rubbed them with his thumb and forefinger.
On her return to the table a couple of dances later, there was a tray of empty tumblers and a full bottle of Jameson Irish whiskey in front of Ben. He poured himself a shot and passed the bottle to Julie on his left. It made its way clockwise around the table until it came penultimately to Rivera. He held the bottle over his glass and stared at Zanna without blinking. She pleaded with her eyes that he not continue. Without looking, he dispensed a measure into his glass, then offered her the bottle.
Of course! Another reason you didn’t want to take a pill. With one hand Zanna accepted the bottle and with the other pinched the bridge of her nose. She poured herself a drink.
Ben nodded to Rivera.
Rivera raised his glass. “Never above you. Never below you. Always beside you.”
“Rest easy, brother,” said Doyle. “We have the watch.”
The intimacy of the words was not lost on Zanna but never having met Villarreal, she didn’t feel qualified to repeat their words, so quietly offered up a paraphrased version of a toast given at another military funeral she’d attended. “You knew him, you remember him, and he will not be forgotten. To your comrade.”
“Well,” Doyle said, replacing his empty glass. “I’ve got to be on the ranges at Quantico by zero-six-thirty tomorrow, so I’ll bid you all goodnight . . . and if anyone wants a lift back to the hotel, they’re welcome.”
Getting slowly to his feet, his features drawn, Rivera said, “Yeah, I’ll join you.”
You OK? Zanna mouthed. His eyes narrowed and he broke contact with her.
The others rose with him. Ben said, “Hope to see you in happier circumstances next time, bro.”
They all hugged in farewell.
* * *
While Zanna waited for Rivera to come down to breakfast, she replayed the previous day’s events in her mind. The vivid colors of the ceremony; from the blues of the Marines’ uniforms to the vibrant colors of the Star Spangled Banner set off by the verdant backdrop of Arlington National Cemetery. A stark contrast to the semi-arid landscape of the base in Southern California. And, of course, his tears—his silent tears.
Rivera turned up for breakfast, ashen-faced. His hand shook as he reached for the coffee.
Omigod! Her insides froze. You look like a ghost. “Did you get any sleep?” It doesn’t look like it.
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